Brushing the Veil
by HoVis
Summary: Brushes with death always left him feeling slightly offkilter. Malcolm tries to explain to Trip why he's acting so strangely after an accident. Please R and R! Oneshot.


**A/N:** Well... I don't know where this came from. I was re-reading a lot of old fanfics and came across a few "post-almost-deadly-accident" ones which usually involve Trip going and making sure our good armoury officer (he's _always_ the one to be injured, isn't he?) is alright. I love these stories but somehow, when I decided to write my own take on one it came out rather... oddly. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless; it isn't supposed to be depressing, despite the subject matter!

**Disclaimer:** The fools that _do_ own it decided to cancel it... so no, I sadly have no legal claim on _Enterprise_. And the Grim Reaper is a non-copyright character.

**Brushing the Veil**

Close brushes with death always left him feeling slightly off-kilter, as though that grey lady dogged him for a few days afterwards, reluctant to give up one who had seemed ready to become a citizen of hers. As for Malcolm – well, he could hardly blame her. He had danced _that_ dance, the one which teased at and sometimes even crossed the line between the physical world and the next, so many times that he could hardly blame her for feeling somewhat impatient.

Impatience was another side-effect of his frequent (too frequent, his bruised side and grazed arms told him) flirtations with that last bow which all actors on the feeble stage of life at one point took. For days after being released from sickbay he could hardly sit still, couldn't settle to a thing – though of course, he would not let his colleagues notice it, or let it interfere with his duties. But the feeling of restlessness and – what was it, that yearning for something more? So he would set himself into a frenzy of work, usually earning him a concerned reprimand from the captain and a straightforward threat of tranquilisation from the doctor.

He had come shudderingly close to actually achieving it, this time; they had been on an away mission (they always were, Malcolm thought bitterly, and Archer _never_ let him take enough people nor large enough firearms) and had – as always – been set upon by the locals. Except for once the locals were not wielding phasers, set to stun. They had come bearing projectile weapons with which to greet the supposedly "undercover" visitors to their pre-warp world. Except, it transpired that they had fully functioning scanners and had tracked _Enterprise_ from the moment it entered their planet's orbit.

Trip had received a stray 'projectile' (a bullet, Malcolm thought grimly later as he wrote his report, why couldn't they use plain language for once?) to his leg, but as armoury officer Malcolm had, of course, taken most of them. An emergency beam-out had followed, from which point onwards Malcolm could not remember much. According to Phlox, a grand total of seven bullets – projectiles, call them what they will, they still hurt – had to be removed from his rapidly paling body in the hour that followed. Malcolm had awoken feeling oddly like he had the day after his graduation ceremony – hung over but still feeling the effects of alcohol. It was the pain meds, of course. Malcolm sometimes wondered how long it would take before his body was actually addicted to them – he had received them often enough, after all.

Phlox had patched him up, of course, and the long and the short of it was that he now sat in his quarters, bandages on almost every limb, and fighting the desperate urge to _do_ something that the combined effects of near-death and what seemed like a life sentence of 'recuperation time' (torture, Malcolm re-iterated in his less positive moments) almost always succeeded in bringing on in him. He had written his report (three thousand words in under an hour), made a terse entry in his personal log, made a foolish and thwarted attempt to settle down to read _Ulysses_, fiddled with most of the items on his desk, and eventually settled for staring moodily at the wall opposite. He was, therefore, both glad and disquieted by the chime at the door. Glad, for company would give him something to do. Disquieted, since it might be the doctor with another of his pets, but mostly because he knew himself to be poor company at such times.

"Enter," he said, trying to refrain his sigh. The door opened, to reveal a figure who seemed to be vying with him for the most injuries to one leg – Trip Tucker.

"Commander," he said, inclining his head, unsurprised as a flash of annoyance crossed the man's face. What was wrong with a little formality once in a while? It was, after all, the state which was most natural for him.

"Mal," the engineer said stubbornly, "can I come in?"

"I said 'enter', didn't I?" Malcolm said, then wished he could bite back his words. His mind could not work as quickly as his mouth at times like this – perhaps it _was_ best that he was off-duty. Trip raised his eyebrows but, undeterred, flopped onto the bed, wincing as he did so. Malcolm felt like giving a slight laugh. At least Trip only had _one_ injury to worry about. The Southerner seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he smiled ruefully as he glanced at the mess of bandages that covered Malcolm's body.

"I guess you win the 'beaten up look' competition, huh?" He asked, and Malcolm snorted.

"It isn't a competition. At least, not with you." Once again, he felt the urge to bite back the words. He was definitely off-kilter; he was moving at a different angle to those around him. Trip frowned.

"That was a loaded statement," he said wryly. "Who is it a competition with?"

Malcolm leant back in his chair, his back aching (two of the seven had entered his back, and he had been damn lucky they had missed his spine – though he didn't _feel_ lucky considering the pain), and feeling slightly bitter that Trip had managed to bag the soft mattress.

"Death." He said abruptly, throwing caution to the winds. Trip's eyebrows crept even higher up his forehead.

"Death?" He repeated, sounding a little disbelievingly. "What, you mean you fancy engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the Grim Reaper himself?"

It was a poor attempt at humour and they both knew it. After all, Malcolm reminded himself, Trip had narrowly 'scaped death that day too. Perhaps he was feeling as... alien as he did.

"Do you ever..." he hesitated. He and Trip were entirely separate entities; one of the reasons why they worked (and played, the more rebellious side of him added – remember Risa?) so well together. Trip's view of the great unknown was probably vastly different from his. Nonetheless, his restless soul drove him to continue his line of inquiry. "Do you ever feel that you're only half in this world? That you've taunted death too many times?"

Trip blinked. Clearly he did _not_ feel this way. Then again, Trip didn't have a clause in his contract which informed him that 50 of the people taking his job died whilst on active duty and before the age of thirty-two. For an armoury officer, Malcolm was positively ancient.

"You aren't making much sense, Mal." Trip's eyes flickered to Malcolm's wardrobe, where they both knew a bottle of scotch was hidden. "Do you think it might make more sense with a bit of... oil for the brain?"

Malcolm gave a taut smile.

"The good doctor made a point of informing me that painkillers and alcohol don't mix particularly well." He said, before giving a slight shrug, rising and retrieving both the bottle and a pair of glasses from beneath his neatly folded uniforms. He knocked a sheaf of papers (somehow, a PADD could never quite replicate the feel of pen on paper) from his disk but, with a hiss of pain, decided to leave them. Trip watched him, an apparently bemused expression upon his face. Good, thought Malcolm. Let him be bemused. Then he shook his head, and poured a generous shot into each glass, his hand trembling slightly. He needed to sleep. He needed to stay awake.

"So," Trip said, gently taking the proffered glass from his hand before it spilt, "you gonna tell me what all this is about?"

Malcolm sighed as he sat back down, a sudden stabbing pain in his chest reminding him (as if he _needed_ reminding, he felt that thrilling blackness every minute, try as he might to forget it) of the events of the day. He had never been able to explain to anyone how he felt at times like this. Then again, he had never had a listener like Trip to explain to.

"Today. I... we... almost died."

Trip nodded, though his blue eyes were perplexed.

"Yeah. And?"

Malcolm searched for the appropriate words.

"And how does that... make you feel?"

"Relieved that we're alive. And you? How does it make you 'feel'?"

"Lost." The single word reverberated around the small cabin, and Trip placed his glass on the bedside table thoughtfully. Malcolm wondered if the gaze his friend levelled at him was one of understanding or one of confusion. At that moment, he couldn't tell. The quiet gaze drew further words from him, the need for confession oddly great. "I escaped... but what did I escape from?" He shook his head, and grimaced as he took a mouthful of the amber liquid in his glass. "I feel as though I _should_ be dead." He glanced at Trip and gave a wry smile. "And that isn't pessimism, Trip. I don't _want_ to die."

"But you think you should be? Dead, that is?" The gaze was definitely one of confusion now. Malcolm cocked his head to one side. Such issues were best discussed late at night, with a friend who understood your silences as well as your words – he had never had this conversation before, though university debates (fuelled by wine, usually) during his younger years had come close.

"Don't you think it's strange," he said quietly, "that the one thing that is inevitable in life is the one thing we spend most of our time trying to avoid?"

Trip was silent, his eyes downcast. Malcolm wondered briefly if, in his drugged, inebriated and death-tarred state, he had said too much. Such words as those he uttered would have been enough, in the past, to drive less steadfast friends away –

Trip looked up. His eyes were strangely bright.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a little hoarse, and Malcolm knew he was thinking of his sister, "I understand." He paused, then added; "You don't want to die... but no one wants immortality, either."

Malcolm realised in a breathtaking moment that Trip really _did_ understand. Then, as he took another sip of his drink, something greater than alcohol flooded him, and he felt alive at last. Relief kicked in, and he felt a smile spreading across his face. He glanced at Trip, saw his glass was empty, and poured a refill for the both of them. Trip glanced at him again, his left eyebrow raised in inquiry.

"You look chipper... all of a sudden." He commented.

"Yes." Malcolm nodded, then grinned. "Madam Mort has left the building."

His statement, which in his mind had sounded so serious, came out sounding ridiculous, and he could not help but snort at his own foolishness. Trip caught his eye and suddenly – high probably from the painkillers as well as the scotch – they were both laughing, deep, belly-laughs such as neither of them had made in some time. When they finished, both weak from the laughter, Trip shot the once-again-emptied glasses a suspicious glance.

"Y'know, Phlox probably had a point about not mixing the meds with the mead..."

Malcolm shrugged, and shot Trip a devilish grin which he knew he rarely used but delighted in bringing out at the most unlikely times, if only to see the surprise it engendered. He leant over and filled up a third glass-full.

"I don't think so. I feel better than I have in weeks."

Close brushes with death always left him feeling slightly off-kilter, but close brushes with life always left him feeling energised.

They'd have a hangover the next day. They didn't care.

888

**A/N:** Please tell me what you think; I hope it wasn't too doom and gloom!


End file.
